Vincent Off The Shits
by EnbyPeep
Summary: Looking at him, one would assume that Vincent Valentine was a rather well-composed, serious individual. He was a part of the Turks, after all. Well, they couldn't be more wrong.
1. All Gun and Games

Most people, when they see the two together, assume that Vincent is the responsible by-the-books one, and Veld is the more careless one. The first time he heard that Veld nearly threw his side out laughing. Because Veld knew his partner. Yes, he knew Vincent very well. After all the time that they had spent together as partners, it was kind of hard not to get to know him.

So, Veld knew good and well that Vincent was an absolute unhinged son-of-a-bitch. He knew Vincent either had a death wish, a vendetta against God himself, or possibly even both. And it was that complete disregard for order and his own life that led to situations like this.

"Who wants to bet I can survive more than fifteen rounds of russian roulette?"

That phrase, spoken without any warning, was met with silence. Utter silence, for at least a few minutes. Mostly because, no one knew what that meant. Or, rather, no one wanted to know what that meant. In fact, it seemed as if everyone was trying to ignore the fact that it was said at all.

The sound of a gun being loaded is what broke the silence.

"Excuse me?" Veld said.

"I said, does anyone want to bet on how many rounds of russian roulette I can survive. I'm playing either way, so now's your only chance to bet." Came the response from none other than Vincent. Veld stared uncomprehendingly back at him.

"Please tell me you're joking." He sighed and stared at his long-time friend and partner. His partner who, in turn, spun the barrel of what looked like a standard issue pistol while looking him straight in the eyes the entire time.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Veld wanted to slam his head on his desk. Instead, he settled for covering his face with his hands and letting out a long-suffering groan. Of course Vincent was serious. He's Vincent Valentine, when is he not? Veld took a deep breath and tried to think of any possible way to get his friend to just drop the damn gun and get some help, ranging from finding a way to talk him out of it (unlikely) to just tasing him (situations like these prompted him to keep a tazor on his person at all times.) Belatedly, he wondered what would happen if he just didn't do anything. Maybe Vin would end up shooting a whole in the wall. Maybe he'd end up blowing his brains out. Or maybe one of the other Turks would end up stopping him.

"I'll put fifty gil on fifteen."

"Weak. Seventy-five on twenty!"

"You crazy? Hundred on ten."

Or maybe they'd actually bet on it, what the actual fuck? What happened to 'Turks take care of their own'?!

"Can you please not encourage him?" Veld damn near begged. After all the shit his friend's managed to pull and survive, he wasn't exactly worried, per se. Nah, he was just tired. So god-forbiddingly tired of it all.

"Hey, don't be such a stick in the mud, man."

"Yeah, dude, Vincent's a big boy, he can make his own choices."

"Yes Veld, I can make decisions entirely on my own. You don't need to worry." Vincent had the audacity to say, still looking him in the eyes, as he put the gun to his head and took the first shot.

A blank, thank god.

A cheer went through the office, as well as a single groan, because apparently, someone actually fucking bet on Vin biting the bullet on the first shot.

This time, Veld did slam his head on his desk. Multiple times. He almost felt like crying. Solemnly, he watched as a few papers slid of his desk as well as a single pen that rolled underneath a storage cabinet. His favorite pen, at that. Could this day get any worse?

Another cheer went through the room as Vincent took yet another shot. This was going to be a long day.

Later, when Veld went to confront Vincent over the bullshit he pulled that day, Vincent took him aside and took apart the standard issue pistol he had used for it. Or at least, it looked like a standard issue, because it had apparently been modified. Absolutely no bullets would get shot out of that thing, even it was completely loaded up. The game was a total scam.

Veld was left standing in front of the elevator, while Vincent continued his walk back home a couple hundred gil richer than that morning.


	2. Revenge Tactics

Veld stood in the elevator heading up towards the Turk floor. Admittedly, he was running a bit late this morning, having spent the night previous finishing up paperwork that had accumulated without him knowing. After a late night like that, he had, rather embarrassingly, overslept, and was now rushing to get to work as soon as possible.

Well, you can't really rush an elevator, but you get my point.

The elevator 'dinged' and he stepped out before it even fully opened. He made his way down the hall, unimpeded by any of the usual rushing interns and junior Turks. Which was. . . odd, actually.

Very odd Veld decided, slowing down. He looked around closely, peeking into offices and cubicles, all of which were empty. Suspicious.

He stood in the middle of the main office, strangely devoid of life, and tried to think about what was going on. Maybe he missed an announcement? He couldn't think of any upcoming events he might've missed that could empty even the Turk department, but it couldn't hurt to check.

It was when he dug out his PHS that he felt eyes on him.

Years of training kicked in as Veld forced himself not to look around. Making it seem as if he thought he was alone, he turned on his PHS. He strained his senses to try and see if he could pinpoint where he was being watched from, but to no avail. A quick glance at the PHS screen confirmed that there was no new announcements.

He narrowed his eyes and considered emailing one of his fellow Turks when he heard it. It was faint, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sound. It almost sounded like. . .

A gun being cocked.

Veld threw himself out of the way just in time to dodge the shot. But something was off, he heard it being loaded but he couldn't hear the shot itself? He scanned his surroundings and froze when he caught sight of -

A foam dart? Excuse me, what?

Veld blinked in confusion at the apparent lack of threat. Decision made, he dug his PHS back out and sent a quick message to the Director. Unsurprisingly, as they were a very efficient director, he got a reply back within a minute. Reading through it, he could feel the beginnings of a headache.

_Veld,_

_I'm sure you are very concerned and confused as to what is going on._

_Do you remember the incident you reported Vincent for last week? I had read over it and decided such reckless acts were unacceptable. As the Department of Administrative Research, we have a certain image to uphold, and as such Vincent's foolishness would not be tolerated._

_Therefore, I had decided to put Vincent on probation as punishment. He is not allowed to requisition any sort of weapon from our supplies, nor is he allowed to partake in any missions. It was for his own safety seeing as he does not know how to take care of himself._

_However. . . I will be the first to admit that it was a lack of foresight on my part. I honestly should have expected him to be upset at that, and to act out. As you've no doubt deduced, he had decided to rebel against these disciplinary actions by taking a ShinRa Brand Nerf Gun and stalking the offices. I have good reason to believe that he will do this for the remainder of his probation._

_Due to that, most of our agents (including me) have vacated the office to work in other parts of the ShinRa Building wherever we possibly could._

_Though, you would have known that if you arrived on time._

_-Director _

Veld took a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to calm him. In one, two, three, four, five. . .Out one, two, three, four, five. Resigned to probably needing a ShinRa Brand Advil before the day is over, he rose from his hiding spot underneath a desk.

"Vin, I know you're there," He raised his hands up in a non-threatening manner, "Could you please, just. . . come out, so we can talk this out like adults?'

A breath. And for a second, he began to think about all the places he could possibly get his work done that wasn't the office. Finally, though, he heard a soft thug as Vincent jumped down from the vents, toy gun in hand.

Vin stood in front of him, and glared. Hard. Like, damn.

Veld was slightly surprised that he actually came, but, nonetheless, wasn't willing to let this opportunity go to waste. Hey, maybe if he managed to placate Vin, he might be forgiven for being late!

"So, Vin, mind telling me why you're terrorizing our co-workers?" He ventured, and almost instantly regretted it as somehow, Vincent managed to glare harder.

"Like you don't know. You're the one that reported me." Vin bit out. Yikes.

Veld mumbled under his breath 'maybe if you didn't act so fucking crazy all the time, I wouldn't have a reason to report you.' And promptly thought that if his partner heard that, then this would be a lost cause.

Which, unfortunately, is exactly what happened.

Huffing, Vincent turned around and stomped away, in that over-the-top dramatic way of his. Veld heard the clanging of metal as he crawled back up into whatever hidey-hole he found, and slumped his shoulders. Oops?

Doesn't matter anymore, he thought, and sighed. Better start gathering up his papers and searching for a place to hole up for the week. Something told him it was going to be a long one.

Just as he turned to head to his desk, he stumbled as a foam dart hit him square in the forehead. Pulling it off, Veld blinked at the small piece of paper sticking off it, with a crudely drawn ':(' on it.

Yep, definitely going to be a long week.


	3. Materia are the same as rocks, right?

It was hot. It was humid. It was hell.

It was times like these that made Veld question the sanity of whoever the hell decided that full-body suits made appropriate uniforms for a team like the Turks. He was, of course, not the only person who shared that opinion in the department. However, on this specific mission, he was promised that the next time he complained about the heat, he would promptly be thrown off the dock.

He didn't know how Vincent could stand it. Veld had already taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, a futile attempt to escape the heat. Meanwhile, his partner stood decked out head-to-toe in full attire and didn't seem to so much as break a sweat. It was inhuman.

Then again, Vin didn't really do too well in the cold. Anything under seventy degrees and he's basically inconsolable. So, maybe it's fair.

But you know what's not fair?

The fact that they haven't left this godforsaken area despite the mission being completed.

Veld took another swig of water and groaned, looking at the boxes stacked on the docks. Vin leaned over one and was poking around inside. The mission really only entailed tracking down a group that was smuggling illegal goods, and they had already taken care of the criminals. The only reason that they hadn't left Costa del Sol yet was because they were awaiting ShinRa transport for the contraband, and they had to guard it until then.

Another swig of water, and he was thoroughly disappointed to see that his bottle was almost empty. Just great. There really was no way this mission could get any worse, was there?

He sighed and went back to watching his partner mess around with the contents of the boxes. Veld didn't think they were really supposed to mess with it, but Vincent had never been one to follow rules to the letter. Unless, of course, it was to piss someone off, exploit a loophole, or both. Veld didn't think he could cause too much trouble, he thought, as Vincent held up what looked like a smaller than average materia. Things like experimental materia, or illegal weapons, have a large capacity to harm people, and as much as a loose cannon as he was known to be, Vin didn't hurt people without reason. Veld was, of course, proven wrong moments later when -

"Did you just fucking lick that?"

When that happened. Because why wouldn't he lick the materia? In fact, he'd be stupid not to!

Lo and behold, that was the exact look that Vincent gave him. It was the same look Vincent had always gave him when he pulled his bullshit and was called out on it. As it was, he actually had the nerve to roll his eyes in response.

"My father was an archaeologist. I know what I'm doing." He scoffed and went back to examining the materia at hand. Which meant licking it again.

Now, Veld knew that Vin's father was an archaeologist. Grimoire Valentine, while not perhaps the most notable in the public eye, was at least a well known name in ShinRa. And if he hadn't put name to face when they first met, then he definitely would have the first time they got Vin drunk and he started spouting off random mythological and historical facts until he passed out. Veld did not, however, know that archaeology condoned licking what you were studying. Nor did he actually believe that shit.

Veld put his head in his hands and had a thought. If Vin really did grow up under a man who regularly did shit such as licking materia, maybe it made sense that he was so insane. In fact, Veld should be glad he isn't more so. Or maybe it's genetic? That would be unfortunate. Didn't Vincent mention once that he had a crush on one of his father's colleagues? If so, then there's no way in hell that they should reproduce, they'd basically raise a demon. He should look her up, make sure she's good. What was her name, Lucy?

Veld was brought out of his thoughts a strangled choking sound. He looked up sharply to see Vincent holding his throat and thumping his chest. He shot across the dock to his partner and held him, hitting his back and guiding him to sit down. After a strained moment, Vincent took in a sharp breath, and the choking gradually devolved into coughing. Veld wordlessly offered the rest of his water.

He sat down next to his partner as Vin accepted the drink. What happened? He was pretty sure they weren't attacked, if it was a dart he'd notice it, and if it was some prior poison it wouldn't have gotten better. The only way he could've choked was if he had been eating something, but what?

Wait a minute.

"Did you just try and eat a goddamn materia?!" Veld yelled. No, this isn't right. Vincent was a wild card, yes. He was stupid, crazy, and frankly, didn't seem to give two shits about his own wellbeing. But even he had to have a limit, right? Right?!

To his credit, Vincent at least looked embarrassed, if his lack of eye contact meant anything. But honest to god, Veld didn't know whether to feel lucky he had actually learned a lesson, or be horrified that he was right.

"In my defense," Vin started, "it was an accident." Veld just stared.

"How do you accidentally eat a whole ass materia?!"

"I. . . did not mean to swallow?"

Seconds passed. Veld was truly starting to lament giving his partner the last of his water. What with the heat returning full swing into his senses, and the absolute incredulity of the situation, though, he didn't really have the energy to get up and get some more. He didn't really trust Vincent not to pass out or something from whatever consequences there are to eating materia.

Instead, Veld took his empty bottle, and whacked Vincent upside the head with it. He crossed his arms with a huff. "As soon as the ship gets here, you are going straight to our bunk to rest. And you better not touch or say or do a damn thing until we get you to a doctor."

Vin nodded along, resigned, as he rubbed his head. He already looked a bit green.

Despite his earlier hopes, Veld got the feeling that the mission could only get worse from here. Oh joy.


	4. Please read the label next time

When you join the Turks, one of the things that you learn quick is that Turks don't take sick days. It just won't happen. Having something like a cold or a stomach virus might let you take a lighter load, sure, and maybe stay at a desk instead of on-the-field missions, but a day off? Absolutely not. The only way you were getting a day off would be if you were in the med bay and the doctors wouldn't let you go back. Even then, given their job description, it's not uncommon for papers and documents to be smuggled in to be finished while on medical leave.

Vincent, despite his eccentricities, in particular was very stubborn about being as punctual as possible and getting his work done quickly. He may have been a bastard of a man, but he was a bastard of a man with a work ethic.

So when Vincent messaged the Head saying he was sick and wouldn't come in that day, it was, understandably, an ordeal.

Veld, as his partner and only one known to best deal with his bouts of bullshit, was, naturally, the one sent to check on him. Which was what led to him standing in the doorway to a seemingly inconspicuous apartment staring concernedly at his friend. When he had come down to his friend's home, he didn't know what to expect; There were innumerable reasons why Vin would try to skip work. He could've gotten drunk last night, for one. Or, maybe he was just trying to mess with them. But when Veld walked in to a paler-than-usual Vincent sitting unmovingly on his couch, elbows resting on his knees, and gazing at his TV with a thousand-yard-stare, he began thinking that he might actually be sick.

It was a. . . strangely reassuring thought that a chaotic being such as Vincent could also get sick. At the same time, thought, it was extremely worrying. For as odd as he is, Vin was a deftly skilled Turk, and like all Turks, he had been trained to sense when someone was near them or in the room, even when injured or not in their best mind. The fact that he had not so much as twitch when Veld came in set off warning bells.

Veld had to handle this cautiously.

"Hey, Vin. . ." He spoke, and carefully walked over, closing the door behind him.

No response.

Veld tried again. " So, uh, boss tells me you called in sick. Gotta say, you do look pretty awful." He went for a light-hearted tone, if nothing but to calm his own nerves at the lack of response. Not even a change of breath, as far as he could tell. Vin was pale, paler than normal, though there was a slight flush that suggested a fever of sorts.

Veld bit his lip and came to a decision. He got up, still slowly as to not startle his partner, and headed for the kitchen. Despite his reckless nature, or perhaps because of it, he knew Vincent to be a rather well-stocked and prepared individual, so there was little doubt in his mind that Vincent would have some sort of cold medicine lying around.

He got to the kitchen and froze, staring at the counter.

Because, in a way, he was right.

Right on the counter was a bottle of ShinRa Brand Nyquil, open, meaning he probably already took some. But that wasn't the worrying part, no, that was the fact that the bottle was half-empty, and the plastic wrapping and the receipt were right there beside it. Now, that might not be worrying by itself, if you didn't have a Turk's deduction skills. But Veld did, with the added bonus of knowing Vincent like the back of his hand. Which means he knows from experience that Vincent was an almost compulsive cleaner that can and will try and shoot you if you so much as left a napkin on the table for a minute too long, much less leave trash from something bought days or weeks ago.

So that bottle had to have been bought today, when he felt too out of it to clean up.

That meant that he had drank half of it in one day.

That was. . .not good. Not good at all. Veld wasn't sure what happened when you drank half a bottle of cold medicine, but there's no way in hell it was a good thing. He should probably message the Director and take Vin to the infirmary, right? Right.

He had just taken his PHS out when he heard a gun cock, and hey, didn't that give him deja vu?

"Who are you, and what are you doing in my tomb?" Vincent's voice sounded hoarse, and Veld wanted to cough just hearing him. Instead, he calmly, slowly raised his hands and turned around. He came face-to-face with his partner pointing a gun at him, and belatedly noted that it wasn't actually aimed at him. Vincent probably didn't notice.

Veld cleared his throat and spoke carefully. "It's me, Vin. Veld, your partner. You said you were sick, so I came to check on you." Vincent tilted his head down and scoffed.

"Oh, please. He's sensible, he wouldn't bother looking for a dead man," He glared, "Now either tell me who you are, or leave me to my nightmare."

What in the hell is he talking about? Veld couldn't even begin to guess. It's obvious he wasn't thinking clearly; And that was dangerous for a Turk, especially an armed one. Could he even be convinced to go to the infirmary right now? Unlikely. Either way, Veld resolved to try again before any drastic measures.

"I'm telling the truth, Vin, you've gotta believe. You're real sick right now. How about you let me take you down to see a doctor so you can get better, hm?" Veld spoke reassuringly, taking carefully measured steps towards him. However, it seems that was the wrong thing to say, as Vincent immediately tensed and raised the gun, this time actually pointing dead center. A dark look came over his face.

"Over my dead body." He hissed, and Veld didn't even have time to brace himself before he took the shot. . .

. . .Or thought he did. As it was, there was no 'bang', there was no pain or blood or death or anything. In fact, there was nothing, and Veld realized that in his drugged up mind, Vincent probably forgot to actually load the damn thing.

Vincent just stood there, looking confusedly at his weapon, and Veld took his chance. Now, he didn't actually want to hurt his partner, but at this point, the only way they were getting to the infirmary was if the man was unconscious. That's what Veld told himself, anyway, as he snatched the gun away and brought it down on his partner's head. He dropped, Veld just barely catching him, with a small trickle of blood running down his temple.

That definitely made Veld feel a bit guilty.

But then he realized that if the situation were the other way around, Vincent probably would've knocked him out first and asked questions later, he felt considerably less-so.

He shifted Vincent in his arms so that he was in more-or-less of a fireman's carry, sent a quick message to the Director about what he was doing, and made way for the infirmary.

As a precaution, though, he made sure to pour the rest of the medicine down the sink.


	5. Its called fiction for a reason

Veld had a feeling.

It was undoubtedly one of his more developed Turk instincts, well-cultivated and and honed after years of close calls and risky situations. His hair stood on end, and he carefully watched every corner he turned and hallway he walked.

It was the feeling that _something _was going to happen, and he should prepare to report in.

And despite the relative safety of ShinRa Tower and the Turk floor as a whole, it was not such an absurd feeling. If there's one thing you learn in the Turks, it was Murphy's Law; Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. The biggest issue here was that he didn't know what _could _go wrong, so he was stuck being on edge.

And to make matters worse, it seemed like he was the only one being affected. None of his coworkers seem to have so much an inkling that something sinister was afoot, which could only mean one of two things: either he's going crazy, or the problem was something he alone had experience with.

Sighing, Veld decided he had enough. He needed to let out some steam. . . The shooting range! It has been a hot minute since he went, hasn't it? Maybe that was the issue. He just needed to go shoot something. They _had _been rather swamped with paperwork lately.

Decision set, he made his way to the shooting range. When he arrived there, though, he frowned. Somehow, that ominous feeling worsened. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to happen here.

Warily, he loaded up a pistol and stood in front of one of the targets. This position gave him a full view of the room as well as the entrance, so he could watch for anything suspicious.

He took a shot. Nothing happened. Landed in the red.

Another shot. Still nothing happened. In the red again, but closer this time.

Again, a shot. The door opened, and in walked Vincent Valentine. Bullseye.

Veld's eyes narrowed and he wanted to slap himself. Of _course _that was it. He should've known it was his Vincent Sense! Duh! He huffed, and reloaded his gun. Well, at least he knows that whatever happens, at least, won't kill anybody. . .probably.

Oh hell, when did his opinion of his partner get so low? Vincent may be a bit, okay, a _lot _of a wildcard, but he's still a Turk! One of their best snipers, too, at that! If there was any place that he couldn't be more trustworthy, it would be on the field with his rifle. The shooting range was no different. Just because there's a gun in his hand here -

The gun. That's. . . that's not how you hold a gun. What. . . Why. . .?

Veld stared as Vincent held his rifle _upside down_ of all things. He took aim, somehow making the stance look natural, and shot.

It went wild, of course, not hitting anything even _remotely _close to the target. And when _Vincent _of all people miss, others tend to notice. And notice the rest of the Turks in the room did, all stopping and staring at the sight of their best sniper holding a rifle wrong.

Veld breathed in. He breathed out heavily. This was what his feeling was about, wasn't it? Sighing, he made his way over to his partner.

"Vincent, what the hell are you doing?" He opened with. Best to nip this is in bud before someone gets hurt. Vincent didn't respond, instead frowning at a sheet of paper that he was scribbling something on. Veld looked over his shoulder, then shook his head. Math. Just. . . so much math. Something that looked like it might've been trajectories but came out looking more like a banana, to him at least, took up the most of the page, and the rest was lost to him. He opened his mouth to ask again but was cut off.

"I saw this in a movie. Don't worry." Vincent spoke, and boy, didn't _that _sound reassuring. A movie? _What?_ But then, Veld remembered something. Horrified, he realized that the movie Vin was talking about was probably that trashy gangster flick that came out last week. The same movie that _Veld _suggested they go see.

In other words, this was more-or-less his fault.

His horrified and regretful stupor was broken when Vin took another shot. This time, it seemed he got his math right, because it was only an inch away from bullseye. He smirked, satisfied, and Veld felt a creeping horror for a completely different reason.

"Wait, _please _don't tell me you're planning on doing this on an actual mission." He asked. A pit formed in his stomach as he got no response. "Gaia, you're going to get yourself killed!" He pleaded. Vincent simply raised an eyebrow at him.

Of course. A fool is the man that assumes Vincent Valentine has even an ounce of self-preservation. Mortal danger never has been nor ever will be a deterrant in any of his schemes. If anything, it was _encouragement_.

In his peripheral, Veld could see the other Turks slowly filing out of the room. Smart. Now, if only he could beat that same sense into Vincent. But, how do you keep someone from doing something stupid when they were practically born for it?

An idea formed. It might be a bit cruel, but, it's not like it's uncalled for. He didn't exactly learn his lesson the first time, and what do you know? It might even come in handy!

"Vincent." Veld started. He waited until he had his partner's attention. God, he was going to hate him for this. "I'm sorry to say this, but you've forced my hand." Vin narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but Veld was already walking away.

He had a _proposition _for their Director.

* * *

Veld was in the middle of his lunch break when his partner plopped down in front of him, a dark glare and huge shiner on his face. Veld also rather happily noted that his holsters were empty.

"So," He asked, "How was hand-to-hand training?" It was an effort to keep the laughter out of his voice. Vin already looked about ready to hit him, and with his new _lessons_, it would probably hurt like hell, too.

"_Fine." _He spat out. Then he turned and pointedly ignored him. And, apparently ignoring the fact that _he _chose to sit here in the first place.

Ah, well, if he wanted to be mad about it, that's fine. He'll get over it. . .

. . . probably when he's allowed to get his guns back. Again.


	6. Psycological Warfare

It was on a normal, average, run-of-the-mill Thursday on the Turk floor that Veld decided that his profession couldn't kill him soon enough. The mortality rate of Turks was fairly high; Surely, it wouldn't be too long before some schmuck shot him in the back or blew him up, right? And soon, hopefully.

Because Veld is pretty damn sure that whoever kills him will do say way quicker than _this_. '_This_' being none only that his best friend and partner in the entire world, the infamous Vincent Valentine.

It wasn't that Vincent was doing something mind-boggingly him. There weren't any bullseyes stapled to the ceiling; There wasn't any food dye poured into the water system. And, thank Gaia, there weren't any 'Blindfolded Sniping' Classes. In fact, _absolutely nothing _has happened _at all _for the past _month._

_ And that was a fucking problem._

There's a saying about the calm before the storm. Veld kind of forgot how it went exactly, but he knew instincively that it would describe his current situation perfectly. See, most people assume that his partner's, ahem, _quirks,_ stem from a severe lack of impulse control. However, those people fail to realise that his partner was also one of the best Turks in the business, and _the _best sniper in ShinRa. 'Impulse' might as well be a foreign word to him. No, damn near every chaotic act of insanity was pre-meditated. Every. Single. One.

In short, when nothing's happened yet, that just means whatever's planned next takes a lot of preparation.

This trade secret is what led to Veld sitting at his desk, ignoring his paperwork, and instead watching his partner out of the corner of his eye. There's no way that this went unnoticed, of course, but no one's said anything, either. Somehow, the lack of acknowledgement only made it worse.

Finally, though, Vincent huffed and set down his pen. "If you plan on watching me the entire time, don't expect me to do your reports for you."

"I don't know what you're up to, but you're not gonna get away with it." Veld narrowed his eyes. Vin raised an eyebrow.

"Who says I'm up to something?"

"You're _always _up to something."

"Not true."

"_Yes _true!"

"You're acting like a child." Vincent said, and rolled his eyes. He then went right back to his paperwork, leaving Veld to glare at his profile. Oh, but Veld would not be fooled. He could act as professional and innocent as he liked, but mark my words, Veld would find him out soon.

And that's how they remained for the rest of the day. Veld wariliy watching his partner's every move, and Vin ostensibly continuing his work. Like a _model employee_, Veld thought snidely. The truth will come to light eventually, though. It's only inevitable.

There!

Veld leaned forward as Vin reached into his jacket, and pulled out a cloth. Now, the question was what was on it. Chloroform? It sadly wouldn't be the first time Vin knocked him out in order to pull a prank. Maybe it held perfume, and Vin was going to fill the place with a headache enducing scent. A drug? An insect? What is it, what is it?!

As it turns out, it was just a normal handkerchief, demonstrated when Vincent only had to sneeze. Veld's shoulders slumped in disappointment. Drat.

"_Really_, Veld?" His partner looked at him, exasperated. Well, that makes two of them.

"Look, you're always up to something, and now you expect me to believe you're _not_? I'm not stupid, Vin."

"I thought you _wanted _me to stop behaving like a crackhead."

That got Veld blinking, because really, _didn't _he want that? I mean, it would make his job _so much easier._ All the surprise hospital visits, near-catastrophe missions, and emergency evacuations. . . Just consider what they could do with the money from the Valentine Budget! Yes, that was a real thing their department had to account for. Replacing equiptment and infrastructure was _very _expensive.

"Ah. . ." Veld sat back down, and rubbed his stubble. What the hell was he doing, taking for granted such a coveted change in character? He should be encouraging this, not trying to force it the other way! This is what he's prayed _years _for! "Sorry. Guess I'm just a bit paranoid." He chuckled, embarassed now at his earlier behavior.

Vincent gave him a small almost-smile, showing that all was forgiven, and went back to his paperwork. Speaking of. . .

Veld grimaced, looking at his own acumulated stack of paperwork. He really should've worked on it a little bit. A glance at the clock showed that he probably didn't even have time to get started, and he sighed.

"Well, I'm going to go take all this home to finish. Good night, Vincent." He said as he gathered his papers. Vincent nodded in acknowledgement.

The following night was hell. Describe this, explain that, sign here, here, and here. . . Veld was this close to tearing his Gaia-damn hand off just to have an excuse to skip it. Not that it wouldn't been an accepted one, of course. He'd just be told to write with the other one.

Sighing, he flipped to the next page, and checked the time. 4:13 AM. Why the hell does he have this much paperwork anyways? He was fairly certain Vincent didn't have nearly this much stuff to work on, and they were partners! Where was all this extra shit coming from?

Much of it probably shouldn't have even gone this far up in the first place. I mean, 'How many bullets were recovered versus bullets shot?' and 'How many shell castings were found versus shots fired?' didn't seem like the most _vital _information. It's almost like someone _wanted _to waste his time!

Wait.

A pit formed in his stomach. Quickly, desperately, Veld flipped through all of his remaining paperwork and froze. It was a sticky note, stuck to the back of one of the next-to-last papers, that read _'Caught up yet? :P' _in a scarily familiar handwriting.

Trembling, Veld picked up the note, and crushed it in a shaking fist.

_ "DAMN IT, VINCENT!"_


End file.
